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[90 Good] April 4th 1915. Marcelline Hemingway How We Really Are
It was in the year of 1950 that we made our trip to Mars. 1949 had marked the first entrance of Americans to the planet so the natives or Martians as they are called, knew little or nothing about the Earth. We landed at Notem[?], on the east side of the planet, and after visiting the lately installed American Embassy there, we proceeded fur-ther inland. I remember that we wore asbestos clothing for the temperature is about 180[degrees] or over most of the time. The trip was uneventful and save for the shriveling up of one of our parts, the heat is so dry, we returned safe and sound to Chicago. The head of our expedition had persuaded one of the natives to return with us for exhibition pur-poses. The Martian was to spend his first night at my house and as the people of mars are very superstitious I had to keep assuring the fellow that my house, town and country contained no ghosts. However, in spite of my assurances he firmly believed that he would see and hear the supernatural that night. [Margin Notes Indent deeper for [paragraph]]
II Early the next morning he came yelling down the stairs, pleading to be taken back to Mars. “Why,” said I, “What’s the matter?” “Ghosts”, he yelled, “Earth quakes, lots of devils yelling, Oh! Take me back!” “Your[sic] either crazy or foolish,” I returned, “We have to spirits here! [sic] What makes you thinks so?” He continued to moan and mumble by turns for some time but at last I managed to quiet him sufficiently for him to tell his story of the night’s experience. “I had hardly laid[sic] down,” he began, “When a terrific rumble sounded outside my window and soon the house began to shake. Earth quakes are always the first sign of the presence of ghosts, other strange lights played about my room, red lights, yellow lights + green lights till[sic] I thought I should die of fright.” He paused a moment and I had all I could as to control myself for I was laughing uproariously but seeing his mystified glance I stopped and he continued, “ You say there are no ghosts? Well soon I heard talking and laughter in the next room and I peeked in thru the crack in my door. There wasn’t a single soul in the room! The voice
III M. Hemingway How we really Are. (continued) all came from a daile[sic] toy against the wall and after a while a hell began to ring. I prayed to my gods but they did not hear me so far away from my world. The voices soon stopped and I thought perhaps the spell was broken when suddenly a witch came in and turned the handle of the black box and the spirits began again. She talked to them and muttered some incantations which sounded like this, “Caruso + Melba[?], Home to our Mountains, “ Then the most awful screams of agony came from the box! Oh, Man, why do you let the spirits of the darkness torture human souls in your own house? Burn the box I beg you and get rid of those awful things! Again he raised as tho[sic] overcome with the thought of the torture he had listened to last night. I kept still for I hoped he would go on. Suddenly the Martian turned toward me and yelled “I could have stood those but even my bed was bewitched! A tin thing began to ring and even when I shook it it would not stop! The ghosts are after me!” and he began to sob in fear.
I wiped my eyes, gulped and then began to laugh again. “My dear fellow,” I began, “Let me explain to you the occurrences of last night. They surely sound dreadful as you tell them but you will feel much better if I explain them to you.” I could see that he did not believe me but I proceeded just the same. “First the queer rumble was probably are auto truck. They certainly shake the house. The lights of various colors were reflected from the machines passing by and the hell was the telephone. (I’ll show it to you in a minute.) The magic box,” here I chuckled and rocked back and forth or a few minutes or the idea of my wife’s birthday present as the home of goblins was too funny for me to stand. “The box,” I went one, “ was our new victorla[?], I asked my wife to play a selection from Il Travatone[?], Oh! Oh! Screaming eh? Torturing [?]! Well the bewitched bed was the the[sic] alarm clock I put there for you. We always breakfast early. The Martian looked at me incredulously and turned away with a shrug of his shoulder’s, “Me for Mars, “ was all he said.